by Lin Anderson
‘I am cold but sober,’ he offered. ‘And I dearly want to fuck you.’
He slid downwards, licking her body in small gasps. He laid his face in her groin and breathed her in. When she did not open her legs, he pushed them apart, then lifted them up.
He played with her then, his entry a promise but not a reality until she begged him with a whispered please.
Afterwards he lay, his head on her stomach, nursing her feet as though they were his child. ‘I want to make a baby.’
His voice was muffled by her flesh but she had heard him. Rhona lay silent and apprehensive in the dark.
His voice slurred, ‘I want to have a child.’
She let him sleep, rising before dawn to look for her passport and start packing. He woke around lunchtime, finding her in the kitchen preparing some food.
He was naked, rubbing his hand through his hair, bemused by waking up at home again. He stood behind, pressing himself against her, his penis rising in expectation, his breath warming her neck.
It was not the right time, but she said it anyway: ‘How’s your wife?’
His body tensed. Rhona waited for shock to soften his prick.
‘What?’
‘Kitty Maguire. Your wife.’
It was a bad scene from a TV drama. Naked man, loving and aroused, confronted with the other woman.
Sean turned her around to face him. His cock, whether through anger or confusion, refused to give in and droop.
‘She called the flat to let me know you were married.’
Rhona wanted him to deny it, tell her it was lies. He didn’t.
‘Kitty always hopes we will get back together.’ He sounded both sad and sorry.
It wasn’t what Rhona expected or wanted. ‘So it’s true?’
Sean gave a small laugh. ‘It’s true.’
‘You never told me you were married.’
He came back right away. ‘You never told me you had a child. Not until you had to.’
Rhona wanted him to cover his nakedness, but he made no move to.
‘Kitty and I were married at seventeen. We were fucking one another and she was ashamed. She decided she was pregnant and, like any good Catholic boy, I married her. Except there wasn’t a baby, only a ring and a priest.’
‘So she trapped you?’
He shook his head. ‘I trapped her. I fucked her when I should have kept my cock in my pants, like my granny told me. Twenty years ago, where I come from, that was the crime.’
Rhona could think of nothing to say.
In awkward silence they moved separately around the flat, she packing and he unpacking, each thinking their own thoughts.
34
CHRISSY HESITATED ON the steps. By nature, she made up her mind quickly and didn’t prevaricate. Not tonight. She wanted to see Sam, to at least try to explain her recent behaviour, but avoidance seemed the easier option. If Sam had given her the brush-off, she would have been insulted and hurt. Nothing in his treatment of her had been unkind or untrustworthy. He deserved the same.
This little internal speech sent her down the steps and into the club. Rhona had declined her offer of a drink to end a difficult day. A visit to the mortuary with Malchie’s mother had rendered Rhona incapable of being in any way sociable. She had gone home to take refuge in silence and a glass of wine, depriving Chrissy of an ally.
Chrissy stood at the inner door, listening for Sam’s piano. There was music playing, but it wasn’t Sam. A wave of disappointment swept over her. She had moved from thinking about seeing him to wanting to, and the realisation that he might not be there was suddenly painful.
A jolt of pleasure hit her when she spotted his dark head at the bar. He turned, sensing her presence, and smiled. The smile was one of relief. He had expected her not to turn up. Chrissy felt saddened by the thought and not a little guilty.
Sam stood to welcome her, suddenly shy in her presence. Not for the first time, Chrissy realised how strange she must seem to him: strong willed, opinionated, sexually overt. Were there women like her in his culture?
Chrissy asked the barman for her usual, and Sam waited while she took a drink.
‘I did not think you would come,’ he said gently.
‘I said I would.’
‘I asked in Hausa.’
‘You’re a good teacher.’
The exchange was flirtatious, as though they had just met, never kissed and knew little about one another. Sam understood the game she was playing, distancing herself from the closeness they had enjoyed. At the point of breaking up, the last thing you want is to remember moments of intimacy.
‘It would have been unprofessional,’ she began, ‘for me to take a sample from you.’
‘I know.’ The tone of his voice suggested he was puzzled that she felt the need to explain. ‘I am a suspect.’
Chrissy avoided his gaze. ‘Everyone connected with the case is a suspect. That is the law.’
‘Ah, English law.’
She corrected him. ‘Scottish law. It’s different. We’re different.’
He smiled. ‘That, I do know.’
They lapsed into a more comfortable silence.
‘The death in Ashton Road?’ A shadow crossed his face. ‘It was something to do with . . .’
‘They cut off his genitals.’ The tabloids would eventually find out anyway. ‘There was an altar with an animal’s skull.’
Sam flinched and Chrissy was sorry she had been so blunt.
‘He betrayed them.’ His voice was low and fearful, and a shiver ran up Chrissy’s spine.
‘You’re afraid.’ It had not occurred to her before now, that she should fear the perpetrator of these crimes. They were remote from her, part of her job. If she was afraid every time there was a murder in Glasgow, she would never go outside the door, let alone sleep. ‘You said you didn’t believe in witchcraft,’ she accused him.
‘You said you didn’t believe in God.’
They acknowledged each other’s lies. Saying such words was easy. Believing them was not.
‘Give me the boy until he is seven, and I will give you the man.’ Chrissy smiled cynically. ‘The Jesuit brothers said that. I expect it works for Catholic girls too, but they didn’t think we were important enough to mention.’
On an empty stomach, the drink had gone straight to her head. She liked the feeling. It took away the stress of talking to Sam and made the decision to leave less important. She nodded at the barman to give her another.
‘So what are women allowed to do in your culture?’
She was goading him. Wanting him to say something she could disagree with. If she fell out with him, everything would be easier.
‘We are Fulani. In our culture, it is the young men who wear make-up and jewellery and hold hands until they are married.’
Her jaw dropped. ‘You’re making that up.’
Sam shook his head. ‘Young men wear kohl around their eyes and henna on their lips until they are chosen by a woman. Our women are very beautiful. They are tall, with long necks and high cheekbones. Like Egyptian princesses.’
‘Wow! Why aren’t you married?’
‘I will be after I get my degree.’
‘You’re already betrothed?’ Why did that suddenly matter to her?
‘No. My mother wished it, but no.’
‘What about sex before marriage?’
‘It is forbidden.’
‘You must be glad you came here.’
He winced at the sharpness of her tone. ‘That doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.’
Chrissy thought of his hand on her skin. The knowledge he had of a woman’s body. Sam was either well practised or a natural.
He was also fending off her attack with dignity. ‘You think we are different,’ he said. ‘But I think there is more about us that is the same.’
‘Let’s see. You get an education, have lots of sex without commitment, then settle down.’
‘As I said, we are not so different.’
‘Chrissy.’ His voice was thick with emotion.
She turned to meet his eye.
‘Labarin zuciya a tambayi fuska,’ he said softly.
‘What does that mean?’
‘One’s face shows what is in one’s heart.’
He had set up an altar of his own. A simple wooden cross on a white cloth. The candles on either side were burnt down halfway. A small black bible sat between them. Chrissy kept her glance averted as she walked past and into the bedroom.
This would be the last time. A farewell fuck, she told herself crudely. She already knew it was a mistake, but it seemed inevitable. Like a smoker reaching for the next cigarette, promising it would be their last.
There was an urgency about their actions, as though each of them expected the other to vanish suddenly into thin air. Gone was the gentle approach, the delicate play of senses. All she wanted was him inside her as soon as possible.
Chrissy felt reality seep back as the pleasure retreated. Her body felt slick and heavy and not her own. She slid away from Sam and his encircling arm gave up its struggle to keep her close.
‘Don’t go.’
She sat up. ‘It’s late. I have to get home.’
‘Stay, until morning.’
She had never stayed until morning, but his words weren’t an accusation.
Chrissy lay back down beside him. ‘I can’t see you again.’ The words were out and they hung like sharp points in the darkness. She tried to soften them. ‘Not until the case is over. I shouldn’t be with you now.’
‘I have done nothing wrong.’
She touched the back of his head, fingering the stiff tight curls. ‘I know.’
Chrissy left at dawn. Sam was sound asleep as she crept from the bed. Or he was pretending to be, to make it easier for her.
In the sitting room, she stopped in front of the altar. She hadn’t spotted the photo last night. A newspaper cutting of Stephen in school uniform was slipped inside the small bible. Sam had been praying for the missing boy.
Day 6
Saturday
35
‘I HAVE A strategy meeting about Kano.’
‘That’s fine.’
The f-word. So overused, often in direct opposition to its true meaning.
‘When do you fly out?’
‘I’m on an evening flight to Heathrow. The Kano flight’s tomorrow morning.’
‘I’ll take you to the airport.’
‘McNab— A car is picking me up.’
‘We have to talk before you go, Rhona.’ Sean always tagged on her name like that when he was upset or agitated. ‘I want to tell you the whole story.’
‘There’s more than a wife?’ Her shock wasn’t just for show.
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘Tell me something, Sean. If Kitty hadn’t phoned here, would you ever have said you were married?’
Anger played around his mouth.
‘Tell me something, Rhona. If I asked you to marry me, would you say yes?’
She couldn’t answer him, but the implication was clear. The only time having a wife made a difference was if, or when, he wanted to get married again. Maybe Kitty had served as a good excuse not to get too involved. Maybe he had used her as an excuse in previous relationships. Not with Rhona, but perhaps with others?
She asked the obvious question. ‘Why didn’t you get a divorce?’
‘Kitty is a practising Catholic.’
‘And she’s waiting for you to come home and make Catholic babies with her?’
After his drunken revelation the previous night, it was a cruel thing to say. Rhona watched his face as her words hit home. It didn’t stop her carrying on. ‘When did you last sleep with her?’
‘What?’ Sean sounded genuinely perplexed.
‘That’s why she called me, wasn’t it? You slept with her when you were there.’
Rhona had never seen Sean so angry. His hands were fists by his side, the muscles of his upper arms clenched tight. She wanted to scream and cry herself. She had run down a dark alleyway, with no way back.
He took a deep breath and unclenched his fingers. ‘My father thought I should have stayed in Dublin, had kids. Instead, I ran away, from him, Ma, my sisters and Kitty.’
‘And now you regret it?’
‘Kitty and I would have killed each other, slowly and painfully over the years.’
‘But you would have had kids.’
‘I never wanted them . . .’
‘Until now,’ she accused.
He read the hurt in her eyes. ‘The Irish are always maudlin in drink. Take no notice.’
He had regained his composure. Sean did not do scenes. His anger dissipated as quickly as it rose. The fuss was over. He didn’t want to talk about it any more.
She, on the other hand, would worry at it, if not for ever, then for too long. It was as well she was going to Kano. It would be easier falling out with McNab.
She was going to Africa with an old lover, one who – like Kitty – had taken a long time to let go. If indeed he ever had. She should tell Sean this, talk it through with him. But she’d never mentioned McNab before now. Just as he had never mentioned Kitty. She and Sean were more alike than Rhona cared to admit. But in an argument, it was always better to occupy the moral high ground.
Sean left for the club shortly after the skirmish, promising to be back before Rhona departed for Kano. She secretly wished he wouldn’t. There was nothing else to say, and once her mind was focused on the trip and its possible outcome, there was no room left for personal turmoil.
They were all there when she arrived, even though she was early. A tray with coffee and cups sat in the middle of the table, but no one had poured. Rhona wondered if they were waiting for her to do the honours.
It was Superintendent Sutherland who spoke first. ‘Ah, Dr MacLeod. Please join us.’
Rhona chose the empty chair on Bill’s right. McNab was on Bill’s other side. He wore an expression that could be described as smug, but that may have been paranoia on her part. Bill gave her a quick hello. He looked no better than the last time she’d seen him. Superintendent Sutherland sat at the head of the table, like the host at a dinner party. He had the air of someone who had set the ball rolling and was pleased with the outcome.
‘The Passport Office have coordinated with the Nigerian embassy to issue visas,’ he addressed her and McNab. ‘Your passports will be stamped with these at Heathrow. On arrival in Kano a representative of the British consul will take you to your hotel. Meetings have been arranged with the honorary consul and with your police liaison officer. They are both keen to cooperate.’
High-powered, international organisation suited DS Sutherland. He was pleased with his endeavours on their behalf. But Rhona suspected he had no real idea what they would face in Nigeria.
Rhona stole a glance at McNab, wondering if he had either. She was not unfamiliar with Africa. Two trips to Zimbabwe, before Mugabe had moved further into dictatorship, had made her fall in love with the dark continent. But Zimbabwe was not Nigeria. West Africa hadn’t been dubbed ‘the white man’s graveyard’ for nothing. The west’s climate was more extreme than the east. At this time of year, Kano would be in its wet season, which brought more than just rains. The damp humidity encouraged disease: meningitis, malaria, plus a current outbreak of polio. Not to mention endemic HIV and AIDS. And that wasn’t all. There were frequent riots for and against the Sharia law imposed on Kano State by a Muslim-led state government. It made Pitt Street Police Station on a Friday night sound like fun.
‘There are a number of warnings for travellers on the British High Commission website,’ said Bill, addressing Sutherland. ‘Including ones about indiscriminate attacks against foreigners.’ Rhona listened, feeling fearful for Liam, wherever he was.
The DS looked suitably c
oncerned. ‘I am assured the team will be under Nigerian police protection at all times.’
‘What about bringing Stephen back?’
‘Stephen has a UK passport.’ DS Sutherland implied by this that there would be no problem. ‘As to Dr Olatunde and possibly Mr Devlin, we are in discussion with the appropriate authorities regarding such a possibility.’
No one mentioned that they had to find these people first.
‘I need to take a variety of samples, including soil from the surrounding countryside, meat and vegetables from the local markets, to establish mineral content,’ Rhona told him.
‘I’ve read the Met report on the Adam torso,’ the DS assured her. ‘You will be taken where you need to go.’
‘The Met sent a team of three,’ Bill reminded him.
By rights Bill should be going with them. Rhona wondered if he had pulled out, or the DS did it for him.
‘With the ongoing investigation here, two is all we can spare.’
DS Sutherland was right. There was nothing to suggest that Malcolm Menzies’s death would be the last one in the case. Bill was needed here, in more ways than one.
‘How long have we got?’ Rhona asked.
‘A week, initially.’
Long enough to get the samples and judge if they were on a wild goose chase.
When the meeting ended, Rhona called Chrissy on her mobile and found she was at the lab. ‘Working on a Saturday?’
‘My boss is off to Nigeria,’ Chrissy said in mock accusation. ‘Someone has to do it.’
‘I’ll be with you in half an hour.’
‘Good.’ Now her voice was serious. ‘I need to talk to you.’
McNab was hanging around the entrance, as though waiting for her.
‘All set?’ He said it as if they were off on holiday together.
Rhona kept her voice cool. ‘I’m packed, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Nigeria is a cash economy. No credit cards. No cheques.’
‘So it’s a suitcase full of money?’
‘Looks like it.’
McNab’s enthusiasm was catching. Rhona relented and returned his smile. Being back in Africa was something she was looking forward to, whatever the circumstances.